


A Better Game

by TAFKAB



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drinking, Drinking Games, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 01:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7147358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After waking up in a compromising position with no memory of how they got there, Legolas and Gimli interview their friends to find out what happened and come to the conclusion that drinking games are overrated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Better Game

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [2000GigolasFics](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2000GigolasFics) collection. 



> “Now, just because someone sees, you know, two naked people asleep in bed together, it doesn't necessarily prove sex was involved. It does, however, make for a very strong case.” --Mandy, _Velvet Goldmine_

It wasn’t the first time Gimli had ever woken up with a lover after a night of drinking. Not even with a lover he wasn’t certain he knew by name—not even a lover who wasn’t a dwarf. But it was the first time he didn’t remember how he got there, so he lay very still, staring up at the shadowy ceiling of his room and waiting for clarity to return.

It didn’t, lurking somewhere beyond the veil of thumping pain in his head. He must have drunk a great deal, likely a personal best. He winced. His tongue felt like an inch of moss had grown there, and tasted like the floor of a stable in Edoras. 

Edoras. He’d been very drunk in Edoras, but not drunk enough to lose memories. How in the name of Mahal had he managed to drink even more last night than he had the night he passed out at Edoras? Had he been trying again to outdrink the elf? Damn it, he ought to know better. 

His companion stirred and Gimli froze, dreading the inevitable awkwardness of the morning after. His bedfellow was probably a Man, judging solely by height. Maybe the Man would sneak away decently without forcing Gimli to acknowledge him. 

The unseen bedfellow tried to lift his head and apparently regretted it, groaning and subsiding immediately.

After a thoughtful moment, Gimli’s bloodshot eyes snapped open wide. 

“Elf?” He croaked, his stomach doing a slow roll that started somewhere near elation and progressed rapidly to nausea and terror.

The groan was repeated. In a panic Gimli forced himself to scramble upright. Sure enough, Legolas lay draped over him, and they were both stark naked, limbs entwined. Or they had been until Gimli struggled free. He covered his groin in haste with a pillow, ignoring his exploding head.

Legolas rolled painfully to his back and flung his arm over his eyes. For once he wasn’t glowing, which was probably why Gimli had mistaken him for a Man at first. 

“Elf,” he said slowly, for a second time. 

“Must you shout?” Legolas cracked an eyelid to glare at him from one bloodshot eye.

“You got drunk!” Gimli forgot everything for a moment in his glee. 

Legolas grunted, then bolted from the bed to find the chamber pot, where he was copiously sick. Despite his own lurching stomach, Gimli watched with curiosity. “I didn’t know elves did that,” he said. 

Legolas made a rude gesture at him, so Gimli hauled himself painfully from the bed to help the elf hold back his hair. After a few minutes Legolas seemed sufficiently improved, so Gimli steered him to a sofa, then wandered around cautiously lighting lamps, turning the wicks low. 

He examined himself surreptitiously before drawing on a pair of breeches; his cock was clean, he wasn’t sore, and no telltale itchy flakes matted the hair on his belly. He scowled, running his tongue thoughtfully around his teeth. No, cleanliness was no proof of innocence, and his mouth tasted so foul it gave him no clues, either. Based on what the elf had brought up, they’d been drinking wine; that was all he could tell. 

He could hardly ask Legolas “Does your mouth taste like dwarf,” he decided, watching as Legolas lay back against a cushion, pressing his temples with his palms as if to keep his skull from shattering. Whatever had happened, Legolas’s current miserable condition was less flattering than dismaying.

Gimli flicked back the coverlet of the bed, but the bedding had no answers for him. It was more than adequately rumpled, but seemed clean.

He’d been sleeping naked with the elf, at least-- and he might have taken the time to savor it, if he’d had the wit to think before he acted. But in his shock, he hadn’t registered the kind of quality memories the occasion deserved.

Gimli sat down and rubbed his own aching head, then got up again to pace. The wine bottles on the table were empty; a set of dice lay tumbled among them, and scattered playing cards. The pips held no clearer message for Gimli than his own body did; nor did the card faces, when he turned and inspected them. 

The silence stretched, growing a little uncomfortable. Finally Gimli cleared his throat. “Well. If you would like some water, I can pour you a glass.”

“Thank you.” Legolas accepted the glass and wrapped his palms about its cool surface with relief.

“Go slowly,” Gimli advised. He took a glass himself and sipped, cautious. He began to poke around, finding the elf’s breeches over a chair and his tunic peeking out from beneath the sofa. Legolas’s belt had tangled in the candle sconces by the mantel. That was definitely evidence of enthusiastic and athletic disrobing. Gimli’s own breeches and boots were all he could find of his clothing; it seemed his tunic had not made it home. Gimli winced. 

“How much do you remember, elf?” He grunted at last, and Legolas simply shook his head, slanting a sheepish look at Gimli.

“I remember planning to spend the evening with you and Faramir and Éomer. I brought Aragorn with me. We began by playing cards.”

“I remember that also,” Gimli tilted his head, thoughtful. “And the wine, I think. I remember holding a goblet and not a mug, at any rate. We will have to ask our friends, Legolas.”

“We might be silent and refrain from revealing we do not remember,” Legolas ventured, but he did not sound very hopeful.

“I think we need to know,” Gimli told him honestly. “If we gave affront to any-- including one another-- it would be best to have the facts up front so we may make amends.”

“That is so.”

“We had best start by asking Aragorn, then,” Gimli decided.

“He will be merciless,” Legolas told him, hollow.

“Perhaps we have not earned mercy,” Gimli snorted, and Legolas laughed, then winced, rubbing his head.

*****

It took a while to make repairs to dignity and prepare faces that would pass inspection from a potentially hostile exterior world. Gimli called for basins of warmed water and bathing cloths. He also ordered a light, bland breakfast, noting the frosty manner of the kitchenmaid who attended them. When they had eaten, they set forth on their mission together.

They found their friend the king closeted with his scribe, dictating letters; he graciously took a break to greet them, but could offer little help.

Aragorn regarded them with a light of amusement in his eyes, shaking his head. “You will possibly remember I left early to join my wife, leaving the two of you with Faramir and Éomer,” he mused, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the tabletop. “You were both quite drunk already, I am sure, as you were competing once more to see who could drink the most and remain standing.” A twinkle in his eye spoiled his sternness. “Must you attempt to drink the entire pressing of 3010 in one sitting?”

Gimli and Legolas exchanged sheepish glances, and Aragorn laughed aloud at them. “You are as transparent as glass. I guess you awoke in a compromising position and are not sure what happened between you.”

His insight made it harder to maintain eye contact, and as they glanced away, Aragorn sobered. “Perhaps before you seek the information you desire, you should ask yourselves why it is important to know. What do you stand to gain or lose?” He reached out and laid his hand on Legolas’s shoulder, then on Gimli’s. “Be sure you want to know the answers you may learn, my friends. Farther than that, I cannot help you.”

“We also seek to discover if we have given offense to any of our friends in our drunkenness,” Legolas admitted softly.

“That is a good goal,” Aragorn smiled again. “And you have not offended me. My cellars are proof against the thirst of a single elf and dwarf, mighty though that thirst may be-- but if you mean to invite more of your kinsmen to compete, they must bring their own.”

They left him with some embarrassment, and before they had gone far, Legolas heard a soft thump like a head descending to strike the table, and exasperated laughter. Wisely, he chose to ignore it.

“The laddie has a point,” Gimli muttered, abashed. “Do we really wish to know? Perhaps we should leave well enough alone.”

“I wish to know,” Legolas answered simply. “For my part, I do not think any answer will destroy our friendship.”

Gimli hmphed, nodding agreement. “Nor do I,” he muttered. “For my part.”

He kindly did not comment on the pink flush in the elf’s cheeks.

*****

They located Faramir in the refectory, staring down at a plate of eggs with ham and attempting not to look green. He was failing, Gimli judged, and was not succeeding in wrapping himself around much of his breakfast, either.

“You would do better with dry toast, or perhaps toast with just a little honey,” Legolas advised, sliding into a seat across the table from the steward. “And plenty of pure water.” To look at him, you would never guess he had begun the day hunched over Gimli’s chamber pot; he looked dewy-fresh and perfect, like a fresh-bloomed rose.

Faramir lifted bloodshot eyes to him in a silent plea for mercy, and Gimli chuckled. “Elf, perhaps we should not drag the lesser races into our personal rivalry. Clearly, they are not built to endure it.”

“Lesser races?” Faramir flared with commendable spirit. 

“Perhaps not,” Legolas agreed. “Yet they are so dreadful at gambling, they are a pleasure to game with.”

Faramir laughed at that despite his discomfort. “I have won my share of games against you, elf-- at least at dice. My only error was to agree to cards.” He stretched a little, recovering some of his composure. 

“Then that is what we played?” Legolas sounded a little too eager, but Faramir did not seem to notice.

“We diced at first, but then we changed to cards and I began losing. The both of you were drunk, but I do not know how your games came out,” Faramir took a sip of water and grimaced. “I left when Éomer suggested we play for clothing instead of coin; my wife would not approve.”

“These lightweights and their wives,” Gimli chuckled, but not with malice. 

“My wife is no lightweight at drinking ale or wine,” Faramir began to protest in earnest, but stopped when Legolas covered his smile. “But of course, you both know her well.” He grinned suddenly. “I will bring her the next time we drink, and I think you will not find it so easy to beat her at cards!”

“She will be welcome,” Gimli slapped the table, well-pleased. “Then we may add the coin of Rohan to our pouches along with that of Gondor!”

They parted amiably, with Faramir looking rather healthier than he had when they arrived. 

*****

After some discussion, they sought Éomer and found him upon the plain with his riders, exercising a company of horse. He saw them and rode over before they could call, sweeping off his helm and dismounting with a laugh.

“The two of you, is it? I thought you would be laid up a long while yet, recovering from your debauchery.” He saw them flinch at the word, and threw back his head to laugh. 

“Do not tell me you have regrets.” He ran his fingers through his sweaty hair and accepted a canteen from his lieutenant. “I will not believe it.”

“Less regret than curiosity,” Gimli grumbled. “Wine eclipses memory as ale does not, I fear, and we hoped we had done nothing to offend our friends and companions.”

Éomer led them aside to a small pavilion, where he sat, wiping his perspiring forehead, and considered their words. “Well. **_I_** was not offended.” 

Gimli disliked the stress he laid on ‘I,’ and raised a brow at him. “Who was?” He said bluntly.

“Possibly the queen’s brothers. You would have to ask them,” Éomer smirked as Legolas winced. “However, I would say they were hard to offend. They had no coin, so they suggested we continue to play for forfeits. They were cheating, of course. They swindled you out of your tunics right away, dwarf.”

Legolas laughed softly, and Gimli cast him a death glare, not really meaning it.

“Then they dealt from the bottom of the deck until they had you sitting across Gimli’s lap, elf.” Éomer grinned as Legolas abruptly stopped laughing. They were trying to get you to bet you would kiss one another if one of you lost the next hand when the wine ran out. I could tell you would not be difficult to convince, and perhaps they would not need to continue cheating to win, either.”

Legolas cleared his throat delicately, flushing an exquisite shade of pink, and Gimli cleared his throat in a gruff bass echo, forcing himself with difficulty to look away. Éomer studied them for a moment before continuing. “The twins announced everyone must go down as we were and help them fetch more wine. I decided I’d better see to my own safety if I didn’t want to wind up sandwiched between the two of you in some dreadful orgy just to suit their sense of mischief.” He paused. “You, Legolas, were the last thing I saw as I shut the door. You were still sitting on Gimli’s lap. His hand was sliding down the back of your breeches and you had the most startled expression on your face--”

He guffawed at the horrified looks they gave him. “No, that was not the expression. Not at all.” He wiped his eyes, overcome with mirth. “Don’t trouble yourselves too much over it, lads. You were by far the worse for drink. No one minds a bit of slap and tickle between brothers in arms. In the future you will know better than to take on those twins.” He paused, his eyes twinkling. “Especially when it is so clear you would rather be alone!”

Legolas arose with great dignity. “Yes, we would, would we not, Gimli?” He fixed Éomer with a stern stare. “Do not think I have forgotten your own forfeit, sovereign of Rohan!” He lifted his chin, haughty, as Éomer went pale beneath the layer of dust on his face. “You looked well enough fellating that candle, but your technique could use work!”

Éomer sputtered for a moment. “Well-scored, elf,” he managed at last. “I will be silent if you will.”

“That is agreed.” Legolas smiled slyly. “But if I were you, I would be more troubled about the discretion of the sons of Elrond. Perhaps you should consult with them anon.”

*****

They fled from Éomer, shielding mutual embarrassment behind a heated argument over the pros and cons of confronting Elladan and Elrohir to find out more, and whether it was wise to accuse them of cheating at cards. 

After a few minutes Gimli cleared his throat, looking at the toes of his boots. “Elf, it seems I handled you in an ungentlemanly fashion, and I would offer apology for the insult.”

Legolas likewise gazed at his feet. “I do not remember it clearly, but I am not angry with you, Gimli. We were very drunk.”

“Aye, very drunk indeed.” Gimli seized on the words eagerly, but found little to follow them with.

“Perhaps next time, we should not be drunk,” Legolas said, and trotted ahead lightly as they returned to the city, giving Gimli a very good view indeed of his pretty backside. Gimli spent the trip wondering how it had felt against his hand, exactly how much he had managed to touch, what Legolas might remember, and what precisely the elf meant by ‘next time.’

He caught up to the elf inside the first level, where Legolas had encountered and joined the queen’s procession as she pursued her daily ritual of walking through the city, visiting a few establishments and greeting citizens, the better to know her people.

Queen Arwen made Gimli a little uncomfortable-- less because she was an elf or a queen and more because she was the wife of Aragorn, and he could not help but blame her for the Man’s reticence. Surely if she were less restrictive, Aragorn might have spent the evening with them and prevented much of this confusion! Yet she was lovely, and Gimli gave her a gallant bow, then walked by Legolas’s side in quiet as they strolled through the city.

“The two of you are becoming a legend with the kitchen help,” he heard. “Last night the four of you, my brothers included, came in after midnight and demanded fresh berries in cream-- and roast meat, of course; Gimli was not silent.” She dimpled at him. “The staff have been placated, do not worry.” She winked at Legolas in what, if she had not been married to Aragorn, Gimli would have judged an objectionably familiar fashion.

“My brothers at least should know better; my father has often disciplined them for their excesses. I think they do it at times just to keep his life interesting. But one thing is certain: after your meal, you retreated to your rooms. I know, for I had gone abroad late to see that all was well, and I spied you in the halls as you went.” Her laughter rang among the little courtyards as they walked. 

“For that I am sorry,” Legolas said sincerely, contrite. "We were not at our best, my lady.”

“Cloistered among these stuffy courtiers, I find you a breath of fresh air in your misdoings, Greenleaf. I must see some mischief from time to time, or I will have to make it myself!” She elbowed him gently. “And mischief enough I had last night. Though I know not what happened when you passed behind doors, I saw much as you made your way toward them. Legolas, you were singing a bawdy song about the relative length of beards and other portions of dwarvish anatomy.” Arwen cleared her throat delicately as Gimli turned beet red and congratulated himself for not having joined the conversation. 

“Gimli, you were much more decorous.” She tilted her head to bring him within her gaze. He should have known better than to hope for escape! “You attempted to apologize for finding my grandmother more beautiful than I, and to explain your reasons. Then you fell over trying to bow to me. Legolas picked you up and had to carry you down the hall because you could not walk.”

Gimli nodded miserably, resolving to repair Aragorn’s gates for a greatly reduced fee, by way of apology to the queen. 

“I saw a porter delivering a new cask of Dorwinion to your rooms before you vanished,” she laughed again, sweet and untroubled. Pressing Legolas’s hand, she left them, stepping inside a dressmaker’s shop with her retinue.

“I am never drinking wine again, not until I am locked inside a room in my own mountain home,” Gimli groaned. “How can I look the queen in the eye again, knowing I gave her such discourtesy?”

“She is not displeased with either of us, to our good fortune,” Legolas consoled him. “Yet I think you are right; I have no further taste for wine myself after hearing these things. I am of a mind to retreat before we encounter any others who saw us deep in our cups last night.” 

Legolas led them back to Gimli’s quarters, where they went in and stood staring at the sitting room table together. It was a mess, a sad testimony to the night's festivities. The mess mirrored Legolas’s tangled feelings.

“Aragorn was right. We have not learned that which we wished,” he murmured, rueful.

“And we have learned much I wish we had not,” Gimli said. “I would rather not have known of my discourteous words to the queen!” He ran his gaze over the dice, the empty glasses and bottles, the cards and the rumpled bedding, which showed no one had come to tidy the rooms.

“We will have to make amends with the domestic staff,” Legolas murmured, wry. 

Gimli began to wander about the room, gathering up bottles and glasses and setting them out of the way atop a low dresser: glasses on one side, bottles on the other. They made an impressive array. “A few coins and less mess in the future should settle their ruffled feathers. I am of a mind to call our drinking contests a draw, elf, and not to resume them again-- lest next time, we give offense to one another.”

Legolas nodded and helped, gathering the scattered cards and counting them, then shuffling them into a neat pile, ready for play. He stacked the dice next to them when he finished, aware of Gimli coming to stand at his side. 

Gimli cut the deck, showing a face-card, and Legolas answered by lifting half the pile that remained, showing a three.

“What forfeit would you claim of me, were we at play without having drunk?” Legolas whispered.

Gimli raised a questioning look to the elf. 

“If we would know what happened between us, then perhaps we should ask one another, not our friends,” Legolas said. His face was pale, but the tips of his ears had flushed violent red. “I have lost this hand. What would you have me do?”

Gimli froze, a thousand conflicting answers arising at once in his mind-- none of which he felt comfortable voicing. 

“Perhaps it is easier to play thus when there is wine to cloud the wits.” He took the cards from Legolas carefully and set them back on the table. “Perhaps that is why we have turned to drink so often since the war’s end,” he said, very softly.

“That has the sound of truth,” Legolas agreed. His fingers trembled as Gimli’s brushed them.

“I would have you awaken in my bed, naked and twined with me, remembering what we have done and glad you chose it,” Gimli said, trying not to let his voice shake. “But if that is a game you would rather not play, then let us never speak of it again.”

Legolas turned to him, eyes shining, but he did not speak. Instead he reached to his belt, undoing its buckle, and let it fall on the floor. His tunic joined it in a stunning ballet of long arms and taut, flat belly. His mussed hair fell onto his shoulders, and he held his ground as he gazed a challenge at Gimli, who fumbled to remove his own belt in haste, taking a step forward.

Legolas retreated then, hooking his thumbs into his waistband, a smile starting to overthrow the solemn expression on his face. Gimli threw his belt behind him, toeing off his boots, and took another aggressive step forward, snatching off his own tunic.

Legolas pushed down his breeches, stepping out of them. He fled with a laugh as Gimli launched himself in hot pursuit, bellowing, only to trap the elf upon the bed and kiss the laughter from his lips, replacing it with tender words and helpless moans, and finally with joyful cries-- all far sweeter than wine.


End file.
